Porcelain
by cinnabonme
Summary: Post-game: Dagger returns to the role she was born to fulfill. Warning: character-death, spoiler alert.


_Porcelain _

The airship lands and she is the last to get off; the stuttering of the engine beating in time with the pounding in her ears. No one has spoken a word to her since boarding, and she quickly turns towards the castle gate in an attempt to cut off any further conversation. Hurriedly she scratches the remainder of dried tears from her cheeks. Her teeth clench behind an awkward smile as a mob of ladies and courtiers swarm towards her, engulfing her in an instant. She lets them fuss and worry over every part of her, her mind far, far away from the commotion.

She has decided on a plan, and she will carry it out.

* * *

The week spent in the seclusion of her room is not overlooked, though she insists it is just the weariness from travel. The unease is resolved when she emerges, modest mourning gown and gleaming headpiece; ready to visit the suffering people of her beloved city. She greets each family and each citizen, opening her heart to give out her deepest apologies. Some cannot help themselves and bury their faces into Her Highness' shoulder, but she only gathers them tighter in her gentle embrace.

The reconstruction is going along painstakingly slow, though a visit to the workers soon fixes this. She returns with her arms laden with wildflowers and cards which she unloads onto a nearby handmaiden before disappearing into her quarters for the evening.

The next morning the royal household attends to their sovereign and puts the sound of her pained cries all through the silent night to the back of their minds.

* * *

She has a meeting with her Mother's old councillors and finds their blatant lack of faith in her ability and right to rule infuriating, though she can only sit there and scrape at the lace of her velvet gloves underneath the table. Within days she has formed her own cabinet of capable advisors, which swiftly wipes the smirks off the faces of the cynical old men. Quietly she considers this as her own version of 'punching-their-lights-out' and lets the thought linger, but quickly regrets it.

She berates herself again and again until there is no more room in her mind to think.

* * *

Since their return her meals had been taken in private, but tonight she reaches out the invitation to her treasured companions. Most had not stayed in Alexandria long, so there is merry banter and laughter from stories of their separate journeys. A glimmer of joy returns to her eyes, and she finds that her jaw does not ache like other days when she grinds it behind her soft smile.

Freya pulls her aside and gently asks her if everything is alright, but she flawlessly brushes off her friend's concern with a light joke. The Dragoon is left a little speechless afterwards, the princess' perfectly angelic expression burns in her mind.

* * *

After her public coronation she lets Quina coax her into a week-long coronation festival, in which a feast of startling proportions would be prepared for all citizens and foreign visitors. Defeated, she allows her dressmaker to carry out her all-too-elaborate plans and design a series of extravagant gowns for each day of the festival, which she ultimately regrets agreeing to. But nonetheless she obeys orders and is overcome by admiration from the crowd that devotedly listen to her opening speech, in utter awe at their virtuous queen.

She doesn't forsake her duties and works hard at organising alliance agreements between the other cities, in hope for greater world peace. She works alongside the castle librarians in redrawing the old world maps to include all the places that she'd discovered, and sends as many funds and supplies to her people as she can afford. She dismisses her discipline mistress and instead takes up chocobo riding and fencing.

She finds that the repetition of strokes and stances clears her head faster than any herbal tea could, and begins to spend her early mornings and late evenings practicing in the castle gardens.

* * *

Her uncle pays an unannounced visit and abruptly strides into her quarters, but her transition into her disguise is almost instantaneous, and immediately she offers a warm welcoming embrace. Eiko chatters away incessantly about her new home and the strangely scented pickles they seem to love and she can only think how fast the year has gone by since their whole adventure ended, and how many things had changed, and how _he_ – she freezes and re-focuses on the girl's prattle in time to cover her sudden inability to breathe.

Later on she sets out to bury herself in her work, unable to accept the knowledge of the raw numbness that eats at her day and night.

* * *

It is the holiday in remembrance of those lost during the attack of Alexandria, and she sets out to go through the day's events as every other day. She catches her fleeting image in the mirror and looks back, fingers curling over the strands of her long hair, which now have reached her hips without her knowledge. Her gaze meets her own and she flinches, taking a step back in silent horror. For the longest seconds of her life she is rooted there, until Steiner's clanking footsteps are heard riding up the staircase.

She decides to never to look into the mirror again because it shows too much of her.

* * *

Her people choose this play, she tells herself, as she sits through the same scenes performed by Alexandria's favourite theatre group. She has trained herself well to hold an attentive gaze while casting her mind elsewhere, and she does this as she blocks her ears from the familiar lines and the same heartfelt arias. Soon she stops her thoughts altogether, and sits there in her ceremonial chair like an empty vessel. Her mind shrieks to her that the torture will soon be over, that afterwards she can breathe again.

But even when she's sitting at the foot of her bed, dry eyes stinging and fingers gripped so tight that her palms begin to draw blood, she couldn't take a breath. And then she realised what she had known all along; that she had not once taken a breath and let it out since they had flown away from the Iifa Tree and left him –

Him.

_Zidane._

The tears flow freely now.

* * *

His name lingers on her tongue, but she refuses to let it out. The last shred of self-control she has refuses to let her. The miners hired for the excavation step back from their work and retreat to the airship in silence. She doesn't bother hiding behind masks or carefully constructed disguises anymore, they were shattered long ago.

She takes the cleared path down into the roots of the giant tree, winds lashing at her face. At the end of her route she kneels, looking upon the face of a man who was her world, gently brushing away the layers of dust on his eyelids. Memories flash past her eyes and bring a flush of heat to her cheeks; the doubts, regrets, unsaid words; and then it is all gone. She casts one last look at his peaceful expression before she turns and walks away.

She doubts that she will ever be able to feel anything ever again.


End file.
